


An Acceptable Acquisition

by ArcherExcell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Constructive Criticism Welcome, F/M, Fluff, How Do I Tag, Minor Tyrion Lannister/Shae, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Tyrion needs a happy ending, What am I doing?, haven't written in years, reader - Freeform, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28637979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcherExcell/pseuds/ArcherExcell
Summary: You're a shield maiden of the Stark's, who took part in the battle against the White Walkers and the Dragon Queen. Newly positioned in Bran's Kings-guard, your attitude and inclination towards his Hand doesn't go unnoticed, and you are offered something you are unlikely to decline.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Original Female Character(s), Tyrion Lannister/Reader, Tyrion Lannister/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	An Acceptable Acquisition

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'd like to apologize in advance for any discrepencies or errors. It's been years since I've posted anything on any form, and all my stories (One shots mostly) have been sitting unfinished for longer than I'd like to admit. This is my first attempt, as an adult, to get back into sharing these stories that get stuck in my head.

You almost miss the sound of rapping at your chamber door. It’s quite late, and most have retired for the evening. You had just undressed for the night at your vanity, thinking over the opportunity the king had propositioned. 

It had been a private meeting, almost a chance encounter. In honesty, you are sure the new King has a sixth sense, or at the very least a keen knack for unbridled knowledge. 

What he had said was certainly reason enough to believe wholeheartedly in his capabilities. 

“Your loyalty and perseverance during trying times has not gone unnoticed.” His eyes, though looking at you, seemed to be also looking through you. 

You rise from the chair in front of the mirror, untangling the last of your braided hair. The black and grey fur of your northern cloak is placed around your shoulders. A little overkill, since winter hasn’t fully reached Kings Landing. Or what’s left of it.

You release your long hair from under the thick material before you clutch the furs closed at your breast.

There’s a second, surer knock as you near the door. You would have called out, but since the fall of Cerci in King’s Landing and the dragon queen, anyone who had survived the battle took shelter anywhere they could. You happened to be in close proximity to the Royal Quarters, and you weren’t keen on shouting out at this time of night. 

A shadow moves under the edge of the frame, and you are almost sure who it belongs to. Your belly turns in anticipation.

“We have all sacrificed something to get here. Though the trials of one does not measure the trials of another.”

You hesitate a moment to hear the rush of blood in your ears, your hand just over the latch. 

Through the many chance encounters you’ve had with him, you were able to acquaint yourself well. Neither rumors nor “horror stories” darkened your thoughts of him, and despite your trepidation today, you are fairly confident in your decision.

You wonder briefly if his answer to king’s proposition mirrors your own.

“You are acquainted, yes?”

The door creaks and echoes eerily in the dark. A torch burns in the distance of the empty hall, and the glow illuminates his shifting figure.

Dirty blond hair is mussed in an organized disarray, and beard is trimmed short and proper for the hand of a king. His attire is pristine; tailored immaculately in royal colors.

He’s slightly hunched forward, and his hands are grasped behind his back. His unease is almost palpable in the chilled night air. You forget the previously pleasant disposition you took as the day came to an end, and he sees your lips deepen into a frown. 

“I intend to make an arrangement, with your agreement, and his, of course.”

The door is open enough for you to stand in the opening. You peer down and your eyes meet pathetically before you blush and curtsy.

“My Lord.” Your voice comes out soft and questioning, despite your usual demeanor as part of the King’s Guard.

His handsome brow twists minutely as he opens and closes his mouth before settling on words. “My Lady.” He hesitates and breaks eye contact to glance up and down the hall. His hands come together in front of him to wring themselves nervously. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he usually takes pleasure in your utter distaste for such use of a title.

You expect more from him, but he seems lost for words. His unease is understandable, and it mirrors your own. You decide to shirk decorum. “Would-”

“I’ve-” You and he cut each other off.

“I’ve come to understand that you have been spending more time with my Hand.”

You blush again and a quiet but awkward giggle bubbles up. He sheepishly chuckles before he clears his throat.

“Forgive me. I know it’s late.” He starts again, and his eyes catch yours again. He sets his jaw and raises his head a bit. “I wish to speak a moment, if you’d allow.”

The air from the hall is chilly, and you clench your cloak closer. It’ll not do to have this conversation out here. You push the door open further and step to the side in silent invitation.

His gaze drops to the ground and he gives a small nod before stepping into your chamber. It’s dimly lit, with dark colored upholstery and matching red drapes. A fire is set in the large hearth to his left and at that moment, he has never seen a southern room look so… northern. 

You close your door and you brush past him to head to the table near the far window. Dornish wine is one of the few pleasures in life that you wholeheartedly participate in. It also doesn’t hurt that it’s your liquid courage when time comes for serious talks.

Two cups are poured, and you breathe deeply before you turn to him with them clutched tightly between your fingers.

He approaches slowly from his spot near the fire, and you brush fingers as you pass him his cup. The heat from his hand tingles against your cold ones and you briefly wonder what it would feel like to press against his skin. You flush for the millionth time and gesture toward the long settee by the fire.

As you settle by each other, he turns fully about-face. He is guarded, you decide, when you observe his tired eyes. The light from the fire and candles dance across the room and illuminates his profile handsomely. His voice takes a formal tone as he addresses you.

“I’ve come from his Majesty’s chambers not long ago.” Tyrion starts.

You find it easier to look at your cloak that you readjust onto your lap than to look at him. He’s going to save me the embarrassment of a public refusal. You are sure of it. But that’s fine, you guess. It’s understandable, not to want another arranged marriage.

He continues when you say nothing. “He’s..” He swirls the wine slowly and for a moment, he looks completely unsure of himself. “He’s made a proposition, in belief that some wrongs need to be righted I suppose.”

You lean back to rest against the arm of the settee and close your eyes. Your cup is finished before you reply. “It sounds to me, my Lord, that this “proposition” has put you out of sorts.”

He’s observing you. You can feel it. You can also feel him shift and hear the clink of the metal cup as it’s set on a side table. “It certainly has. Not something that I would have thought for myself.”

That’s fair enough. No amount of fancy clothes or royal titles would change the fact that you don’t belong here. As a Lady. As a wife. You belong in the wilderness. In the mountains where coin holds no leverage, and your people raise warriors to raid and pillage.

Your new life in Kings Landing is starting to look a little depressing, if you really think about it. You open your eyes lazily as you think of a way to word your thoughts.

“It’s something you object to?” You pull your feet up off the floor and tuck them under you before leaning forward to grab his hand. “If it troubles you, you can say no Tyrion.”

He is quiet for a moment as he gazes at your hand on his. You squeeze reassuringly, but inside, you are burning. Will he limit his visits once this has been officially decided? Friends are hard to come by for savages. And you find yourself lucky enough to have the one, aside from a few good acquaintances. 

You’re taken aback when he places his other hand over yours. He’s still not looking at you, but he calls your name softly.

You are almost certain that even if he is considering it, he is thinking this a service to the Realm. Not a marriage of mutual respect and kinship.

You believe in it. Though many outsiders would call your people savages, union between any being is held dear and sacred. You see that life here overseas is ironically much more uncivilized when it comes to the matters of the heart.

Predicting a self-sacrificing speech, you lean forward over your clasped hands to place your lips against his scar on his cheek. You meet eyes as you lean back into your seat, and your free hand reaches up to cradle the side of his perplexed face. You decide to end his inner turmoil despite your wish to see this conversation turn a different page.

“I can see it’s more troubling than you care to admit?” You pause a moment to search his face. “Tyrion, this isn’t something that’s required of you. Though he is king, I don’t think Bran meant for this to force your hand or make you unhappy.” Your hand drops to rest with your other one on his lap. “His Majesty made the suggestion, I believe, to offer you something he thinks you want, in return for all you’ve done for the seven kingdoms.”

“That’s not entirely the problem.” Tyrion Lannister is nothing if not sharp. “So he’s approached you, then.” His head slumps a moment, before he straightens out a little too rigidly. “What of what you want?”

You don’t answer, instead you observe him. Is this what has him troubled? You almost want to laugh. Despite all that has happened, all that could still happen, he’s worried you’d be unhappy in a union to a man who had hand in saving the Seven? Who is loyal, and kind? That can’t be all.

He’s waiting for you to speak. For a second, you are not sure how to. You chuckle incredulously, “Are you implying that a domesticated life as a wife would be undesirable to a savage like me?” Your hands are now back in your own lap and you add: “Though being a hired shield is domesticated enough by my people’s standards. I find myself privy to days spent not fighting for my life, or anyone else’s for that matter.”

He is unsatisfied with your answer. He turns to the fire and you get up before he says anything. You start to understand. Despite the trials and tribulations this man has been through, he is just that; a man. He is entitled to his insecurities if he finds need in them. He is also entitled to a wife he knows won’t be unhappy with their circumstances.

You retrieve the decanter and bring it back to your seat. With both cups filled, you find yourself settling in closer to him than before.

“If I was against it, King Bran would not have brought it to your attention.” You admit. “Said we fought for a better future, and that it was time we lived in it.” You smile softly as you catch gazes again and lean into his shoulder as he turns back toward you. “I agreed. Though by your demeanor this evening, I feel as though you are not so inclined to accept freely.” You laugh into your wine cup when you think yourself clever. “Does the possibility of having a vertically challenged wife bother you so? Maybe someone of… bigger stature perhaps? A little more lady like? Didn’t think you’d be so superficial, really. I’m only a few inches shorter than the northern queen. And slightly more savage.”

You feign annoyance and lean hard into him. He keeps quiet a moment longer before he shoulders you. You try to hide your laughter that bubbles up, but soon he’s smiling and you can’t help yourself. “It would do for me to have a taller and less vicious wife. At the very least, it would give the children a fighting chance.”

You choke on the last of your wine at the mention of children. “I knew it. You could have eased me into this, instead of being so brash. What a heartbreaker you are Tyrion Lannister. And here I’m thinking I have a chance.”

To think, five years ago you were living wildly and without purpose. From small raiding parties to fighting along dragons and thousands of soldiers, fate had dragged you through every situation possible. And here you find yourself now, employed by The Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms discussing marriage with the second most powerful man in the lands. Though if you’re honest, he could be a farmer and you’d still say yes. This man has proven to be someone that you can’t get out of your head, nor your heart.

Tyrion is the one to take your hand this time. He weaves his fingers through yours and smiles to himself. “You have more of a chance than any. I can’t think of anyone more equip for the task.”

“So, you admit it’s a task to be your wife?” You quip. “Your sharp mind and quick tongue do take a certain disposition and effort to keep up with.” You are smiling hard now. “Though I’m sure I’m no stroll through the garden either.”

“As if there was any question.” He laughs, and it’s your turn again to shoulder him.

Your laughter dies down within moments and you almost lose yourself in your thoughts while looking over his face. The fire blazes in the background despite it being chilly in your chambers. You pull at the blanket draped behind you and throw it across you but hesitate with the extra length in your hands.

“I don’t suppose you have any other consultations for the night, do you my Lord?”

You swear he looks bashful when he finds anywhere other than your face interesting to look at. “Other than my daily nocturnal engagement with my cup,” he chuckles,” nothing I can recall.”

“Well, now your nightly engagements can include me and my cups.” You hold your cup up as a salute and spread the blanket graciously over him. He taps his third drink to yours in solidarity before finishing it entirely.

He mimics you when you just sit and admire him in the silence. It’s pleasant, being close to him. You recall the few times you’ve been able to enjoy such company. Beside the duties you both held, and the proximity in which you both executed them, it was rare to get time alone.

In those fleeting moments, your personalities clashed immediately, and you got hooked on the challenge that was Tyrion Lannister. You are pleased to assume that he has as well.

The silent fingers of intoxication trail their way through your body, and you find yourself getting heavy against him. You are tempted to retire for the night against him on the couch, but you acknowledge his overdress and the curiosity that’s burning inside you.

He doesn’t move when you lean your face in close, nor when you reach your hand around the back of his neck. His breath hitches in the slightest way, and he smells of fine leather and books and something that is just him. You pull at him and close the distance between you. 

Your eyes close when your lips meet, and you relish in his warmth. One of his hands finally comes to rest on your waist while the other holds your flushed cheek.

For a few moments, you both stay interlocked. There are a few stolen breaths, but at this moment, you just want to be close to him. 

Your future husband.


End file.
